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Drone Attack Claim on Putin’s Residence
Drone Attack Claim on Putin’s Residence: What We Know and What Remains Unproven In recent days, headlines around the world have reported claims from the Russian government that a drone attack targeted the residence of President Vladimir Putin. According to Moscow, Ukrainian drones attempted to strike a location connected to the Russian leader, raising fears of a dramatic escalation in the ongoing Russia-Ukraine war. However, as with many events in this conflict, the truth is more complex than the initial claims suggest.
By Wings of Time 17 days ago in Fiction
Ukrainian Strikes Inside Russia and the Putin Controversy
Russia-Ukraine Conflict: Ukrainian Strikes Inside Russia and the Putin Controversy In late December 2025, tension rose once more in the long-running Russia-Ukraine war after Russia claimed that Ukrainian forces had carried out a drone attack targeting Russian President Vladimir Putin’s residence in the Novgorod region of Russia. This accusation quickly became a headline in many countries, but independent information and U.S. intelligence assessments show there is no evidence Ukraine targeted Putin’s home. Reuters+1
By Wings of Time 17 days ago in Fiction
Terrence. Top Story - March 2023.
Terrence was average even by hamster standards. He was not particularly good at stuffing baby carrots into his mouth whole nor could he squeeze into a toilet paper tube — these being the two tricks most often enjoyed by children who own hamsters.
By Call Me Les18 days ago in Fiction
The Christmas I Almost Forgot. AI-Generated.
I used to love Christmas. When I was a kid, it meant sugar cookies shaped like stars, my mother’s off-key carols, and Dad pretending the tree lights only worked when we all yelled “magic” together. Those were the days when Christmas filled our small house with warmth — the kind that had nothing to do with the fireplace. But this year was different. It was my first Christmas since moving out on my own, and honestly, I wasn’t feeling it. Work had been brutal, my bills were stacked like snowdrifts on the kitchen counter, and I hadn’t even bothered to put up a tree. The only light in my apartment came from the flicker of my laptop screen. The world outside glowed with holiday spirit — wreaths on every door, families walking arm in arm through the snow — but inside, I felt empty. On Christmas Eve, I told myself I didn’t mind spending the night alone. I heated a microwave dinner, wrapped myself in a blanket, and tried to convince my heart that this quiet was peace. But around nine o’clock, there was a knock at my door. When I opened it, I saw Mrs. Harris — my elderly neighbor from down the hall. She stood there in her red coat, holding a tray covered in foil, her white hair peeking out from under a knitted hat. “Merry Christmas, dear,” she said, her breath puffing small clouds in the cold hallway. “I baked too much again.” I blinked, caught between surprise and guilt. “Oh, you didn’t have to—” “Nonsense,” she said, pressing the tray into my hands. “No one should be alone on Christmas Eve. Come have cocoa with me.” I wanted to decline. I was tired, and truthfully, I’d forgotten how to make small talk. But something in her eyes — kind, insistent, warm — made me nod. Her apartment smelled like cinnamon and pine. A small artificial tree blinked from the corner, every branch hung with mismatched ornaments — some handmade, some cracked, all loved. We sat at her table drinking cocoa so sweet it made my teeth ache. She told me about her late husband, about the Christmas they spent stranded in a snowstorm with nothing but canned beans and laughter. She spoke of years when the house had been full of family, and others when it was just her and a radio playing Bing Crosby. “I used to hate the quiet,” she admitted. “Until I realized the quiet makes room for remembering.” I didn’t know what to say, so I listened. Somewhere between her stories, I started to feel something shift — the faint stirring of the Christmas spirit I thought I’d lost. When I got back to my apartment, I set her tray on the counter and noticed she’d tucked a note under the cookies. It read: “Christmas doesn’t live in decorations or gifts. It lives in kindness shared.” I stared at those words for a long time. Then I looked around my apartment — the empty space, the undecorated walls, the silence that no longer felt peaceful but hollow. Without really thinking, I pulled an old box from the closet — the one my mom had packed when I moved out. Inside were a few ornaments, a tiny string of lights, and a small ceramic angel my dad had given me the year before he passed away. I plugged in the lights. The glow was faint, uneven — but it was something. The next morning, Christmas Day, I knocked on Mrs. Harris’s door. She answered in a festive sweater covered in reindeer. “Merry Christmas,” I said, holding up a small bag. Inside were two mugs and a loaf of banana bread I’d managed to bake from a mix I found in the back of my cupboard. “Breakfast?” Her eyes lit up. “Only if you promise to stay awhile.” We spent that morning drinking coffee and laughing over old stories. She told me about her grandchildren; I told her about how my dad used to pretend Santa got stuck in the chimney every year just so we’d leave extra cookies. For the first time in a long while, I felt connected — not to the holiday, but to the people who make it matter. Now, every year since, I make a point to knock on someone’s door. Sometimes it’s a neighbor, sometimes a coworker who can’t make it home. I bring cookies, cocoa, or just conversation. Because Mrs. Harris was right. Christmas doesn’t live in the gifts or glittering trees. It lives in the small, ordinary moments when we decide to show up for someone else. That’s the kind of magic my father used to talk about — the kind that only works when you believe enough to share it. And now, I always do.
By Muhammad umair18 days ago in Fiction
Pancakes Made with Love
Last year when I woke up to the smell of pancakes it was great. Now it isn’t as good as it used to be. I got out of bed this morning to find a stack of them on the table. A small pat of soy butter on top of them. Pumpkin jelly is in between the pancakes that were made. And a huge amount of my favorite syrup poured on top. Along with some scrambled vegan eggs with cheese melted throughout.
By Raphael Fontenelle19 days ago in Fiction
